


Won't You Take Me With You

by katieh28



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Male Character, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Rough Sex, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-11-15 04:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18066458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katieh28/pseuds/katieh28
Summary: If he was ever going to find a way to let Oliver go, first he needed to find himself. For the first time in his life, the Elio that he knew was nowhere to be found.





	1. Chapter 1

The water in the pool was stagnant, non flowing, even with the crisp summer breeze attempting to stir up a current, and Elio dug his toes into the gravelly bottom. The water had taken on a greenish hue, he noticed, and Elio remembered the earlier days of summer when the water was completely clear.

"Elio, caro," his mother called from the porch, her dark hair reflecting the mid day sun, a silver tray in her hands. "Mafalda made limonata. Fresh squeezed."

She placed the tray down on the edge of the table, Elio's father grabbing a tall, sweating glass as he adjusted the newspaper in his lap. Elio's father gave him mother an adoring smile, focused and intense in the eyes, a certain glimmer reserved only for a person that holds all the stars in your universe, that you orbit around like the earth orbits the sun.

Elio waded out further in the water, cupping it in his hands, letting the smooth wetness flow out through his fingers, inspecting it.

He remembered too well when the water was clear.

He remembered when the water was such a distinct, bright blue the reflection of it hurt his eyes. He remembers the way it gleamed that first day Oliver asked him to swim, the way the droplets of water shined off of the smooth, rippling muscles of Oliver's back, the suntanned skin.

Elio's mother called him, but he didn't hear her. Something about coming inside soon, the air was becoming chilled and the mosquitos were beginning to swarm him like a dark cloud around his head. But Elio remained in the pool- leaning against the stony edge, his pale skin scraped by sharp gravel, his back stinging, and he let it be. When he closed his eyes, he thought of Marzia.

Marzia, with her large brown eyes and perky breasts that he had cupped in his hands more times than he could count, feeling her nipples harden in his grasp. Marzia, who was so afraid of what people thought of her that she didn't read or study as much as she'd like. Marzia, who had rode her bike to his place, loyal as a puppy, big innocent brown eyes on him, her neediness equally embarrassing and devastating. Marzia, who had asked him if she was his, expression fragile as cracking glass. Marzia with the long brown flowing hair, who was everything safe and kind and good. Marzia, who would never be enough.

The air around Elio shifted from slightly chilly to outright cold, the water dulling with lack of sunlight, and suddenly he was aware of the space around him. Suddenly, the air around him was too still, and Elio was pulling himself up against the edge of the pool, lifting himself out of the water, his thin arms shaking with the effort. He shook his hair out like a dog, tiny water droplets flying into the darkening sky, and adjusted him swim shorts, riding up at his crotch uncomfortably, and at that moment being alone with himself became too much. Still dripping water from the pool, Elio walked barefoot across the stone path to his bicycle, and suddenly he was taking off, riding off into somewhere else.

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It was almost too easy.

It was almost too easy, too familiar, he thought, as he untangled the string of her halter top, her breasts bouncing out of tight fabric. He cupped them again, heavy and soft in his hands, his other hand trailing down to the smooth, perfect curve of her hip. He felt himself getting hard, and it was familiar, mechanical. He could enjoy this.

He kissed her for a moment, letting her tongue explore his mouth, his lips, and then he moved down, breath heavy against her chest as his tongue flicked against her hardening nipple. With another hand, he reached down into her cutoff shorts, feeling past the lace of her underwear, and reached in to feel the wetness between her thighs, thick liquid coating his fingers, and he wanted to taste it. This was his favorite part, he thought. The visible signs of her arousal, her lips parted in ecstasy as he began to move his fingers inside her.

They fucked quickly but not roughly, and when she came, her hands laced into Elio's hair and her legs tightened around his hips, he felt her entire being pulse and flush hot around him. After they both released he pressed his sweat soaked hair against her chest and allowed himself to close his eyes, the fire in his belly slowly going out and all energy leaving his body, and he was left in a state of easy, drained, heavy lidded bliss.

They remained like that for a while, Marzia's fingers combing through his hair gently, her fingers gently tracing lines down his bare back, feeling the jutting form of his shoulder blades.

"You don't love me."

It was barely a whisper, but Elio heard it.

"Do you?"

Elio felt himself stiffen, and he tried to make himself sit up in bed, to meet her eyes.

He reached his hand out to touch her long silky hair, brushing a strand behind her ears, and he hoped that would be enough. He hoped the gesture would say what he couldn't.

"Is it another girl?"

Elio squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head against her shoulder, his head suddenly heavy.

Marzia is quiet for a moment, and Elio knows she's biting her lip. She'd done it ever since they were children, whenever she was thinking or upset. Her teeth raking over her soft pink lips, a far off look on her face. Elio knew it without seeing it, and his heart sank deep into his chest, like an anchor was dragging it down and through him.

"It's him then."

Elio opened his eyes, and he felt his shoulders stiffen.

"Oliver."

The name hung heavy in the air for a moment, the weight of it obvious to the both of them. Elio hadn't spoken that name in two weeks, rolling off his tongue in a pained whisper over the phone, his last desperate call. How easily he'd spoken it then, and how it silenced him now.

Slowly Elio perched himself up on his forearms, forcing himself to meet Marzia's gaze, the large brown eyes that knew everything, too much. There was no anger in them, only understanding. Peace.

"You love him."

Elio stared at her then, his eyes wide, and vulnerable, his heart shuttered in his chest, barely breathing. He looked at her desperately- desperate for what, he wasn't sure. _Something_. Something she couldn't give him, something she never could.

Marzia looked at him with eyes that were too kind.

"It's okay. I love you Elio. It's okay."

At that something broke inside of him, and Elio collapsed again against her shoulder, his chest heaving against her, short labored breaths punctuated with sobs. It wasn't the kind of crying he had experienced two weeks ago after Oliver's last phone call, blinking away gentle tears by the fireplace, sitting in place for hours as time stood still, his sadness still hazy with newness and uncertainty and early hope that his loss was not final. This time, Elio sobbed and gasped like a dying man, clutching Marzia to him like she was the one thing keeping him afloat in the river of agony that surrounded him, the undercurrent of heavy loss threatening to pull him under. These were tears of mourning, of knowing better, of hope dying out slowly then all at once, like a candle flickering out in a gentle breeze. This time, the loss was everywhere, the pain palpable, and he could feel it through every part of him.

A whirlwind of memories came back to him, as cruel and steady as the pouring rain that had begun outside Marzia's window. The first time seeing Oliver, getting up out of his father's car, standing tall and straight and golden as a greek statue. His perfect face, masculine and yet smooth, open, like someone he always knew. His smile, the only smile that could light him up like a fire, like a bolt of lightening through his chest. The lazy days sitting out by the sun, the midafternoon bike rides with wind whipping through his hair and Oliver's deep laugh beside him. The passionate nights and lazy mornings, the thousand unspoken words of love. An arm around him, strong and warm and comforting, bringing him joy like he'd never known, only to be ripped away cruelly, leaving him nothing but emptiness in his heart.

"Shh, it's okay, Elio. It's okay," Marzia whispered, wrapping her arms around him tighter, only making him cry harder, the sobs racking his body and leaving him breathless.

Still Elio clung to her, her naked body against his, and somehow it was worse than being alone.

" _Elio Elio Elio Elio_ ," he whispered, a desperate cry for that something he needed that eluded him now, that he worried he'd never find again.

" _Elio Elio Elio_ ," he whispered, but it was not the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The music blaring from the dance floor and the harsh, spastic lights left him existing in a sort of fog, his thoughts clouded and inconsistent, and he welcomed it. He took another sip of his drink, the alcohol strong and burning his throat, and that was welcome, too.

It was a club not known for it's décor, the musty smell of cigarettes and sweat and neon lights the only real atmosphere it had to offer, and it was the kind of building so out of place in a city like Crema, all decadent seaside landscapes and quaint stone cottages and sun soaked rural bliss, that it was almost laughable. Elio took another sip of his drink and savored the slow sting and burn that he had grown to enjoy.

Unabashedly he allowed himself to watch Marzia dance with a thin, hairy man that appeared to be about their age, her hips swaying against his, the bright lights of the club illuminating them before flashing out, fading again into darkness. Her hair was drenched in sweat and her dress clung to her knees. The air in the club was unimaginably hot and stuffy, giving the night even more of a hazy air, and Elio thought most of these people wouldn't remember any of this in the morning- he hoped he wouldn't either.

He watched with an unfocused gaze as Marzia danced, staring into her stranger's eyes with a hope and a hunger that made him feel inexplicably alone.

Elio let his eyes move away from Marzia and the stranger as he scanned the club, hot sweaty strangers pressed up against each other, a mass of faces and bodies and movement that meant nothing to him. He thought he should be looking for someone attractive, but everyone was the same, just a body swaying to pulsing music, the lyrics of which held no meaning. He spotted a group of girls, blonde and giggling, sheer fabric nearly exposing their breasts through their tops, and Elio contemplated walking over to them, dancing with them, fucking one of them, whichever one would let him. They were pretty, almost absurdly so, pale skinned and young and curvaceous. Elio felt his stomach stir, and he took another sip of his drink, and then another.

His eyes left the girls and he continued to scan the club, and suddenly it made sense why Marzia had taken him there. There were men dancing with men, women dancing with women, none of the shame emanating from them that usually accompanied such actions. A large rainbow flag hung proudly against the southmost wall.

Was that it, then? Was that who Marzia thought he was? He watched as two men grinded against each other, hips pressed tight through strained jeans, and Elio felt sick.

Elio closed his eyes, and sniffed, feeling what was coming, but it was too late- Elio only needed to brush a finger against his nose to prove it was bleeding again, a thick red stream pooling towards his lips. Without hesitation he ran down the hall, past the flashing lights and music to the bathroom. He grabbed a wad of toilet tissue from a dispenser and held it against his sore nose, his head now aching along with it, throbbing to the beat of the music emanating from the hallway. Elio stood by the mirror then, watching with a sick fascination as the toilet tissue turned crimson, and he imagined all of his feelings, all of his thoughts, everything that he was pouring out alongside his blood, leaving him with nothing left.

Elio watched himself in the mirror for a moment, the wide brown eyes staring innocently back at him like a cagey child, set against pale skin and dark rimmed eyes, full red lips cracked with dehydration. He stared back into his eyes and realized that it wasn't cageyness, no- it was wariness that had taken over his features. He didn't look like a child anymore. In his gaze he saw an old man, trust and liveliness warn down by the erosive affects of time.

After a few minutes he disposed of the wadded up, bloody tissue in the trash basin next to him, rinsing his face with cold water that was meant to wake him up from whatever haze he was in, instead only solidifying the silent hum rattling inside his head. The alcohol was starting to take affect now, his vision blurring, and Elio braced himself against the bathroom sink, the porcelain cold and grimy against his skin.

"You alright?"

Elio practically jumped at the deep voice, spinning around to face the stranger speaking to him. He spun around in one jerky motion until he was face to face with a man, broad shouldered and tall, undeniably handsome. A thin sweep of light blonde hair trailed behind his ears, and a dusting of freckles dotted his tanned skin. Elio knew he was staring, but for whatever reason, he didn't care.

"Saw you run in here, looked like you were in pain," he said, and Elio's heart jumped as he recognized the accent. _American_. Different, still, but undeniably American - thick and heavy and Southern.

Elio continued to stare. He might have blinked a few times, but he was unsure. "I get nosebleeds," he stuttered, his voice surprisingly soft.

The man laughed a deep, guttural, friendly laugh. He was maybe a few years older than Elio, but it was hard to tell. He thought that the man must be by the silvery stubble dotting his chin, the chest hair peeking out through his unbuttoned shirt.

"I used to get those too when I was a kid, those were the worst," he said, giving Elio a sympathetic look, and something about it lit Elio up inside. This stranger could sense his pain, he wanted to believe that. Some part of him needed to.

"You'll grow out of them," the man said with a kind smile, fatherly, almost patronizing, and Elio felt a rage flare up inside of him, quick and intense.

"I'm not a kid," he spat, his cheeks flushing red. He was suddenly too aware of himself, the thin bony ridges of his shoulders, the girlish thickness of his eyelashes, the wide innocence of his eyes.

The man only laughed. "Okay, kid."

"I'm not a kid," Elio said again, his cheeks still on fire, his eyes blazing. Before he knew it, he was pressed up against the man, eye to eye, chest to chest. "I can show you."

Elio reached out to cup the man's cock through his jeans, giving him a sensual rub, but the blonde man pushed him away.

"You're drunk, kid," the man said, a lot kinder and gentler than he deserved. "You need to go home."

"I'm not a kid," Elio cried out, looking at the man desperately, swaying drunkenly, his head starting to spin. "I'm not," he sobbed.

"I'm sorry," the man said, his voice kind, too kind.

"I'm not," Elio cried, his shoulders collapsing against the man's broad chest, feeling tears begin to prick at his eyes, body loose and pliant from alcohol. 

"I know," the man said.

Elio shuddered against the man, his breath coming to slow, too hot.

"I used to love someone like you."

All of a sudden, the blonde man was pulling Elio into his arms, and Elio collapsed there, letting himself be held, letting himself feel, giving himself to whatever this was, his father's voice echoing throughout his head- _feel, live. Be._  


	3. Chapter 3

The man's name was David, and he brought Elio home.

The night was an incoherent mess of shards of memory in Elio's mind, but Marzia filled in the pieces missing from Elio's consciousness the next day, his head still pounding heavily in his skull as Marzia rubbed slow circles into his palm. The blonde man, David, had found Elio in the bathroom, weak and crying from booze and loss of blood, and Elio had collapsed against him. He had brought a half-conscious Elio out to the floor only to have Marzia run over and claim him, apologize for his behavior and try to drag him home. Marzia wasn't strong enough to carry Elio herself, and David insisted on helping, depositing Elio's lifeless body on Marzia's bed before taking off on a motorcycle, Marzia said, one with thick black tires that kicked up the gravel in her driveway into a smoky cloud as he sped away.

Elio couldn't remember it, but he imagined David carrying him up the stairs, cradling him in strong arms, and suddenly he felt warm.

"What did you say to him?" Elio asked, his voice still raspy.

Marzia took a breath, looking deeply into Elio's eyes, her gaze telling him only what he already knew; that she knew absolutely everything.

"I told him thank you," she said, continuing to rub Elio's hands, her warmth comforting. "I told him you were going through a hard time."

Elio only squeezed his eyes shut, nodding.

"Did he- um-" Elio said, clearing his throat, trying to sound less like the weak, frightened child he felt like. "-Did he leave a note? -I'd like to thank him."

Marzia only shook her head, giving Elio a tragic look, and Elio allowed the weakness to take over him, allowed himself to press himself further and further into Marzia until he completely disappeared.

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"I met someone."

It was the first thing out of Elio's mouth, the words tasting bitter in his mouth as he said them, yet he felt stronger somehow, less meek, less of a child.

He heard Oliver breathe out and then still; silence emanating from the other end of the phone.

Elio wanted to speak then, to make Oliver hurt, to spin lies about the handsome Southern stranger that had fallen in love with him, but he couldn't. He heard a woman's laugh on the other end of the phone, and he pictured Oliver ten years from now, running around and chasing after some ruddy-cheeked children, a wife plump with age, hair graying at the roots, but still pretty. He pictured little league games and family portraits and a white picket fence, and Elio wanted to be angry, but he couldn't.

Elio let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, twirling the phone cord around a slim finger.

"Does he treat you well?"

The kindness of it made Elio want to sob, but he didn't. It was nothing but kindness, none of the jealousy or thinly veiled anger that Elio had expected, had craved. Something deep inside of him wanted Oliver to scream, to admit that he felt something.

And yet, it wasn't nothing. The warmth and care emanating from his voice, the concern- it wasn't the same as jealousy, as passion. He wasn't going to run back to Italy and rip Elio's clothes off and make love to him, he knew that much. But he didn't forget. _He didn't forget_.

"Yes," Elio whispered, and it was the kindest thing he could have said. He could hear Oliver's smile through the phone. 

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The next weekend, Elio returned to the club with Marzia, and he was struck immediately by how little had changed. The same faceless bodies grinding sensually against each other, Marzia picking out the one straight man in the room and gazing into his eyes like a hungry man desperate for food, black lace peeking out from the top of her skirt. Elio scanned the room, all beautiful strangers that he could charm and play with and fuck and discard like a toy, if that was what he wanted.

His eyes struggled to adjust to the harsh lights the more he drank, and it took him a long time to find David, pressed up against an equally handsome man, his blonde stubble brushing against the man's earlobe. Elio took one last swig of his alcohol and walked up to David with none of the shyness he had possessed imagining the situation on the car ride there, all of his fears melting as he focused on the sway of the man's hips, the freckles dotting his nose, smooth muscles of his arms peeking out from a tight white shirt.

"Mind if I cut in?" Elio asked, his drunken smile too close to a sneer, and the man gave him a dirty look as he backed away. Then it was just him and David, David staring at him with bright hazel eyes. Elio's cheeks went red, his bravado fading.

David gave him a curious look, and Elio froze.

"You really want a dance, kid? Or can we just talk?"

Elio wanted to respond to him, but his mouth went slack. David looked at him then, and in a moment his expression softened.

"One dance," he said, and suddenly Elio was pulled against him, their hips aligned. Elio noticed that despite the man being much broader than him, they were about the same height.

Elio felt those hazel eyes staring into his and suddenly he was at a loss for words, the whole speech he had prepared to give thanking David, the speech he had practiced a thousand times in the mirror, slipping through the cracks of his mind as he was enveloped by David's warm arms. He felt inexplicably safe, safer than he had in a long time.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled against David's shoulder, his voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

"It's okay," David said smoothly, giving Elio's shoulder a small squeeze, but Elio could feel it throughout his entire body. "...I remember my first love."

Elio froze, pulling back from the man then.

"How much did Marzia tell you?" Elio asked, suddenly feeling too thin, like David could see right through him.

"Kid, I know a broken heart when I see one."

"My name is Elio."

The man looked at him then, and Elio knew that he could see him. See all of him.

"Elio," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and Elio felt his cheeks become hot with the sound of the man's voice in his ear. "You'll get through this. You will."

David hugged Elio to him then, just like his father would when he would get upset about school as a young boy. Elio wanted to cry, but instead he pushed himself up against the man, whispering against his neck so he would be able to feel Elio's hot breath on his skin.

_"Will you help me?"_ It was meant to be sexy, a come on. Elio cringed- it had just sounded desperate. Like a boy asking for guidance.

David slowly started swaying with Elio in his arms, his hug turning into a gentle dance. He pulled back just enough to look Elio in the eyes, and Elio noticed that his lips were pink.

"You're beautiful, but you're too young," David said, giving Elio another squeeze. "I care about you. As a friend. That's all this can be."

"How old are you?"

"I'm 22."

Elio bit his lip. "I'm 17."

"You look younger."

"I can show you my license," Elio said, fumbling for his wallet through his jean pocket. David only laughed a deep, gravelly laugh.

"I believe you," he said. "I just-can't. It's personal."

"Can you tell me?"

"No."

Elio whined and pressed further into him, his consciousness starting to fade, losing the ability to think or speak or do anything but feel. He felt the man's hot breath on his shoulder, strong muscular arms around him, and it made his heart ache suddenly, a deep ache in the pit of his soul. He looked up at David, and he was David- not Oliver. He was kind, and intelligent and American and beautiful, but he was not Oliver, and the realization hit him like a ton of bricks to his chest, pinning him down, enough to bury him. This man could hold him, could make him feel, but he could never make him feel what he had felt with Oliver, no one could. David would never whisper to him, _Oliver Oliver Oliver Oliver._

"Listen- thanks for last weekend," Elio said, suddenly cold, shoulders stiffening. Suddenly sober. "I was- that wasn't cool. I'm sorry. I should go."

Elio squirmed out of the man's grasp, but David's hand remained on his shoulder. Elio looked over and David was staring at him with concern, with so much care it was heartbreaking. It was harder now than it was with Oliver, Elio noted. Oliver was so much taller that he could look down, could look away if he needed to. With David, all he could do was look into his eyes, the force and clarity of them pulling him closer until he felt he was in too deep. It was frightening.

"Wait-" David said, a strange desperation in his eyes, and for once he wasn't the smooth, charming Southerner who had met him in the bathroom, all perfect smiles and bright hazel eyes. "-We can talk."

Elio looked at him and all of a sudden he was completely sober, too sober, and he craved the feeling of oblivion, the way he could make himself so easily fade away when he wasn't staring into David's eyes. With David, it wasn't possible. David sees him. 

Elio gave him a smile devoid of joy, a look he hoped conveyed everything he meant to say.

Elio walked away, and David could only watch as he faded into the bright lights, nameless faces and faceless bodies.


	4. Chapter 4

The weekends blended together into a mess of watching and waiting and drinking and watching, spinning Marzia around the dancefloor in a boozy haze. One night she tried to spin him, his limbs loose and warm with alcohol, but she miscalculated her own strength and sent him hurtling into a steel beam in the center of the floor. Elio had smashed his face into the beam at full force and he knew it would come before he even felt it, the warm trickle of blood running down his nose, coating his upper lip. A few people ran over to help, some of them men that Elio had danced with weekends before, one a man who Elio had let explore his body outside the nightclub the past weekend, cringing as the man's grip became too harsh, never saying no. David was there, nose deep in the neck of a man wearing a gold skirt and heels, both handsome and pretty simultaneously somehow. Elio could feel him watching, his hazel eyes clouded with worry, but when Elio finally got the courage to look up he could no longer feel David's eyes on him. He looked up, and David was cupping the man's ass through his skirt, whispering the lyrics of some song against his ear, bodies swaying right, left, right.

Elio spoke with Oliver two more times in September, their phone calls increasingly littered with heavy silences that neither of them knew how to break. Sometimes they could begin to talk like they did during the summer, an ease falling over them as Elio spoke about books he had read and Oliver spoke about life in New York, and then Elio would hear a woman in the background, and suddenly his stomach would turn sour and the line would go silent. Still, Elio craved Oliver's voice, still sat by the phone, his fingers twirled around the chord and cheeks growing hot as he waited for Oliver's call, even though he knew every call would end with him crying silent tears by the fireplace, repeating his heartbreak over and over again.

He fucked Marzia one more time, and it was fine. Marzia moaned like the women in pornographic films he had seen flipping through hotel room tv channels, her dark hair cascading down her back and tangling in the sheets. She touched Elio and he became hard, he fucked her and he came. For a while, he had a pair of arms around him, even if they weren't the arms that he wanted.

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It was on the first Friday of October that the invitation had come in the mail, Elio's parents squealing over it from the kitchen. The wedding was planned for March- a spring wedding, how romantic, his mother had cooed. It would be in a church, a classic ceremony, the reception at a country club his father had been to before. His mother raved about everything from the venue of the ceremony to the font chosen for the invitations, and his father beamed happily at her side.

" _Que bellisimo_ ," his father had exclaimed, giving his mother a warm, wet look. 

" _How beautiful is love?_ "

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Elio sat in his room for hours that night staring at the old clock on his wall. His father had gotten it for him on a trip to America at some antique shop he frequented, one of many, but his father liked to talk about this one- it was special because it only sold the things people truly didn't want. Old broken photo albums, records that skipped, clothing gray with wear. _Discarded treasures_ , his father called them.

The frame of the clock was wooden, dusty, and the hands ticked too slow, too heavy. He got up from his bed only once to trace the dust along the edge with his fingers, the gray powdery residue resting on his fingertips now, and he wondered how long something could sit there collecting dust before it truly fades away. 

Elio took out his pack of cigarettes, his stomach churning as he considered lighting one, watching it burn. His skin itched. 

Elio picked at a scar, one he never let heal. Slowly, he put his pack of cigarettes back in his drawer, turning his attention back towards the wall, the clock that never stopped ticking, marching on, mocking him. 

Elio sat on his bed staring at the wall. He sat and he stared, and at some point in the night time wasn't real anymore, and Elio was okay.

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The next night, Elio drank more than he meant to. He knew it in the way Marzia chastised him, smelling it on his breath before they even walked through the club doors. He knew it from the way he felt too loose too early in the night, too flush with heat and numbness.

Elio ordered another drink as soon as he got there, Marzia diligently by his side, telling him to stop, and then she spotted a handsome stranger and it morphed into every other night. Marzia was off dancing with a strange man, holding on too tight, and the nameless, faceless bodies moved through the crowd, always in step with the rhythm of the music.

Elio took a shot of something too strong and let it burn his throat, searching the crowd for the only person he wanted to see. It didn't take long for his eyes to land on David, muscles rippling through a black sleeveless tank as he danced with the man in a skirt from a few weeks ago, looking more pretty than handsome tonight. Elio stared at David, far too inebriated for embarrassment or discomfort, until David's eyes landed on his. Elio didn't smile or show any sign of recognition beyond staring, and David gave him an uncomfortable grin before shifting his attention back to the man in the skirt, hands on his hips.

Elio took a large gulp from his drink and when he looked up, he was alone. He was alone in a crowd of faceless strangers and he wanted to be seen by someone, anyone. He wanted something, and he wanted that something so desperately that it clawed at his chest painfully, and suddenly he was looking around the room ferally like a predator hunting for prey.

His gaze shifted from a group of short-haired women in overalls to two men dancing sinfully by the corner jukebox, lips pressed together tightly and bodies perfectly in tune. He scanned the crowd for several minutes before finding someone who sparked his interest, and still the spark was slight. The man was dark and tall, almost as tall as Oliver, and he had a sturdy look about him, like a man who worked with his hands. He wasn't what Elio would call classically handsome, but there was something about him, an intensity behind his dark eyes that told Elio he might be able to make him feel something, good or bad, and something was all he could hope for.

Elio set his sights on the man with laser-like intensity and began strutting over to him with all the confidence of someone who had drunken themselves past the point of self-consciousness. He tapped the man on the shoulder, the man looking stunned for a moment, and then he looked at Elio and his features sharpened into something like longing, lust- and Elio felt his pulse quicken. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him that way, really looked at him that way, and he hadn't realized how much he had been craving it. How much he needed it.

"Care for a dance, beautiful?" the man asked before Elio had the chance to formulate his own sentence.

Elio only gave him a seductive smile before pressing his hips up against the man. Elio feared for a moment he had crossed the line too quickly, but the dark stranger only moaned, pressing his hands into Elio's ass and holding him there.

They danced for a few minutes, although Elio could hardly call it dancing. The man was continually grunting, pressing his erection into Elio's stomach, and Elio looked around, unsettled, his hazy mind briefly returning to the present. He looked over at David, not expecting to see anything other than his hand wrapped around another man's waist. Elio was surprised to see David staring at him, his eyes flooded with concern, almost enough to push Elio over the edge, to send him running away from the stranger's arms and into his.

And then the man in a skirt came back with two glasses of vodka and greeted David with a kiss, and Elio squeezed his eyes shut, willing everything to fade out from his mind. He asked the stranger to get them a few drinks, and he did, coming back with a drink for each of them, watching in awe as Elio downed his far too quickly. A few drops of it spilled down Elio's face and the stranger wiped the trail of drink from Elio's lips sensually, a touch far too intimate for two strangers, and if he was sober he was sure he would've jumped back. But Elio didn't want to care right now, didn't want to feel, didn't want to think about what made him comfortable or what made him happy, because he would never have either of those things. So when the man led Elio to the bathroom, Elio followed, stumbling drunkenly behind him, ignoring David's worried eyes on him. When the stranger pushed him into a bathroom stall and shut the door behind him, Elio let it happen. When the man pulled his pants down and pushed Elio down to the ground, his cock springing free from his boxers, Elio let him. When Elio let the man pull him by his hair onto his cock, choking him with it, slapping his face when he gagged, the tears that followed were only a physical reaction, Elio's mind barely registering what was occurring to his body. And when the man pulled Elio's pants down and fucked him, pushing into him fast and rough, Elio was grateful for the pain ripping through him, he welcomed it. He cried because it felt good to cry, felt good to feel the physical pain instead of the constant aching in his heart, and when the man discarded him against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, thanking him for a good fuck, Elio let himself fade into oblivion, and it felt good.

Elio sat there on the floor of the bathroom stall for a while, head spinning, body aching, tears silently leaking from his eyes. He finally felt hollow, empty of everything, and it was a relief, but the tears cascading down his cheeks only intensified.

It was a few minutes before he heard the door opening, and the shuffling of feet against the tile floor. There was a knock against his stall door, and Elio could bawl at the cruelty of it- he didn't know if he could stand right now to open the stall door if he tried.

"Occupato," Elio mumbled, his words slurred and weak.

There was silence, and the knocking at the stall door ceased.

"Elio."

The familiarity of David's deep voice made Elio's heart flutter, despite his current state of near unconsciousness.

"David," he said, his own voice sounding so fragile that he winced.

"Elio," he repeated gently, like he was talking to an injured animal. A child. "Are you alright?"

Elio wanted to say that he was fine, that he'd get up in a second, but he couldn't. His whole body ached, and he suddenly became aware of exactly where he was- on a dance club floor, sticky with urine, cold tile pressed against his back, after letting himself get fucked by a stranger. It hurt, he knew it would hurt, but he had let it happen. All because he couldn't handle his life. All because he couldn't handle losing Oliver. All because every Friday night he let himself get sucked into a crowd of strangers, and none of them knew him, none of them could see him, none of them would ever look at him like Oliver did, and he wanted to be seen.

Elio started to say that he was fine, but the words caught in his chest, and he instead released a guttural sob. David started pounding on the door, his fists desperately trying to enter, and by the time he had broken through the lock Elio was curled into himself, his arm around his stomach to prevent the bile from escaping his throat. 

There was silence for a moment, and distance, and stillness. Elio squeezed his eyes shut, grateful for it. He felt the cold tile pressed against his back where his shirt rode up around his narrow hips, and he pulled it down in a pathetic attempt to cover himself, to hide the evidence of his shame. He was sure David could tell anyway, the pungent smell of sex still in the air, Elio's hair a wild mess and cheeks stained with tears.

Elio couldn't look at David but he could feel him, could feel the warmth of his body as he crouched down next to Elio, so close Elio knew he could see right through him, could feel the shame and regret rolling off of him like waves in an angry sea, and he couldn't stop himself from turning away, from squeezing his eyes shut even tighter.

Elio couldn't see, but he felt a strong, reassuring hand on his knee. He forced himself to look in David's direction, and the look on his face was enough to rack another broken sob from Elio's aching chest. He hated himself in that moment, he hated everything he had become since Oliver left him, how _weak_ he had become so quickly. Suddenly David's eyes on him were too much, and his cheeks became hot as his stomach burned. He couldn't face eyes on him now, and so he pulled David into him, grabbing onto his shirt desperately, David's collar quickly dampening with his tears. When he realized how quickly his tears were staining David's shirt he pulled away, cheeks burning hot with shame.

David only pulled him in closer, squeezing him tight with strong, tan arms, and for a moment Elio was back on his kitchen floor, an icepack pressed to his nose, blood trickling down his face again, feeling like a child. For a moment Oliver was with him, golden hair and a smile that could melt even the coldest winter snow. For a moment Oliver was there, rubbing his feet, looking at him like he was the only light in a world full of darkness.

Elio cringed.

David stopped.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked gently, pulling away from Elio then. It was only then that he stopped rubbing gentle circles into Elio's hand, tracing the thin lines of his palm.

Elio was quiet for a moment, and as quickly as Oliver had appeared, he was gone. Now it was only him and David, and he could feel his heart beating loudly, pounding in his chest.

"No." he said softly. He pulled David closer to him, and he let himself collapse against his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

When Elio was younger, he could never tell when he was dreaming.

All of his dreams felt so real that he wouldn't realize they were nothing more than his imagination until he bolted upright in bed, sweat running down his face, heart pounding, gripping at his sheets.

His dreams were that vivid, that real. Nightmares too.

As he got older, Elio began to realize he could recognize when a dream was real and when it was simply a figment of his imagination, his mind playing tricks on him. He could recognize a dream now, but that didn't make them any less real.

And Elio knew that this Oliver was no less real standing in front of him now than any of the dreams he had as a child. This Oliver was tall and tan and radiated warmth. As Oliver stood before him, glowing like the sun, smile intoxicating in its beauty, Elio knew he was real. He was a dream, but he was real.

"Elio," Oliver said, standing before him like a Greek statue, golden and perfect. His tan skin gleamed in the bright light of the early morning, and Elio wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel his smooth skin, the creases of his hand. 

"You're here," Elio whispered. Elio watched as Oliver approached him, walking over from the windowsill of his bedroom, his face finally coming into view from behind his father's muddy drapes. The sight nearly stole Elio's breath away as he took in the gorgeous deep blue of Oliver's eyes, a blue deeper than the morning sky.  

"I wanted to see you," Oliver said gently, sitting on the bed across from him. Elio held his breath- their knees almost touching, only a thin blanket of bedsheets between them. Elio remembered the first time he saw Oliver tangled up in his bedsheets, all rippling muscles and broad, thick shoulders, and he remembered thinking the man before him was too perfect to be real. 

"-I was worried about you," Oliver said, his blue eyes flooding with concern, and Elio felt like a child again- this time, he didn't fight it. 

"-I missed you," he said, suddenly feeling paper thin, his shoulders quaking with the force of holding back the flood of emotions behind his eyes. 

"-I missed you too."

 That smile again, that smile brighter than the sun. 

"-I missed you so much." 

He gave Elio a watery smile, and Elio tried to smile back- he couldn't. He felt like he was dreaming now- he knew he was dreaming now. Oliver was glowing, an angelic quality to his features as they radiated light, his smile too perfect, too white, the one crooked tooth gone. 

Elio knew he was dreaming. 

" _Oliver Oliver Oliver Oliver,_ " Oliver whispered, reaching his hand out for Elio to grasp. 

Elio squeezed his eyes shut, praying to God that he never woke up. He spoke to God in his mind in a way he hadn't in years, with all of the desperation and hope of a little boy waiting on Christmas morning, _let me stay like this. Please. Whatever this is, let me stay._

Elio reached for the same tan, strong hand he had held more times than he could count, so many that he had memorized the smooth dips of his palm and the harsh crescents of his fingernails. He reached, but suddenly he was frozen, his heart going still in his chest. 

" _Let go, Elio,_ " Oliver whispered, his voice soft and breathless as the wind, and Elio reached out for him one more time, wanting to hold him close, needing to feel the warmth of Oliver's hand and the steady beating of his heart against his chest. 

 

 

The old wooden clock struck midnight, and Elio bolted upright in his bed. Elio woke up to a thick layer of sweat creeping up his neck and a room that held nothing but darkness. 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

" _Giovanotto_ ," Mafalda said, beaming with pride as she adjusted the collar of Elio's suit, straightening the wrinkles in his shirt with her palm. "Don't you look handsome." 

The suit was classic black, designer, golden cuff links and delicate buttons and dark fabric. It was slightly too big, but Elio preferred it that way, enjoyed the way the wool seemed to engulf him, cover him up, drown him out into nothing. Boy in suit, nothing more. 

It was the suit he would wear to Oliver's wedding.

Mafalda unbuttoned the jacket slowly, nodding approvingly as she tucked and untucked the corner of his shirt, experimenting. "So handsome," Mafalda murmured to herself, her wrinkled hands smoothing the sides of his jacket with care. She looked at him then, her eyes convening some secret message that Elio couldn't quite decipher. There was sadness in it. "You will certainly break a lot of hearts." 

Elio gulped, forcing a smile. He could feel where his lip cracked and opened, bleeding. 

"Thank you, Mafalda," Elio said. He shed the suit jacket like a snake shedding its skin, quick and desperate, the jacket feeling heavy and stiff on his shoulders. He ripped off the suit, and he could breathe again. Mafalda gave him a look of concern as he threw the suit jacket carelessly over the table, so close to the edge that he was surprised when it didn't skid off, didn't quite fall to the floor. 

Elio ran his tongue across his bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood too familiar to be a comfort. Last night he had bitten his lip so hard that it bled. And like everything else that bled around him, he needed it to bleed, and so he let it. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Elio called Oliver that night, and that night, he let himself imagine Oliver trapped in the house of a witch, a witch with cold hands and stone eyes and nothing inside of her but cobwebs and dust. 

Oliver told Elio about a new course he hoped to teach, and Elio told Oliver about a new stranger he'd like to fuck. 

Oliver's voice went silent on the other end, and then the words, _are you being safe?_  

Elio laughed cruelly at his words- what was safe, in this world that could give you everything, only to steal it away from you and leave you with nothing? 

Elio heard a woman's voice on the other end of the line, _Honey, who is it? Your old friend from university?_

A pause, and then, _Tell Freddie I said hello._

Elio heard the witches voice, syrupy sweet, and pictured her cold arms around Oliver's waist like a vice, her lips poisonous against his skin. 

Elio heard the witch laugh, heard Oliver shush her gently, she was always giggling so loudly while he was on the phone. She spoke and he laughed, a joke shared between them. 

Oliver finished speaking with the witch and came back to him, but by then, Elio knew he had lost him to the woman, dark and frigid like the night, too far gone to be saved. 

Oliver started to speak about university again, about the weather in New York. 

Elio was gone long before he hung up the phone. 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

That night Elio felt his skin crawl as he sat upright in bed, watching the old dusty clock tick, tick away from across the room. 

It ticked, and it ticked, and Elio thought he never hated a sound so much as the heavy metal hand of a clock. 

Elio watched the hand revolve around the face of the clock for one full rotation, counting the seconds out in his head, and then he watched it go around again. 

He watching it go around and around, and then suddenly Elio was squeezing his eyes shut, blocking his ears, desperate to get the incessant _tick tick tick_ of the clock out of his head. Still the rhythm played on in his mind, taunting him, mocking him. 

How cruel was it that all could move on, that the clock could keep ticking, that time could march forward, steady as a drum. How cruel was it that time dared to move forward when he felt like his own feet were weighed down by two tons of led whenever he tried to move? 

For the second time that week, Elio felt his skin itch, and for a moment he could imagine it burning, peeling away. 

Elio picked at his scars, reopening a few, letting them bleed. 

 

That night, he dreamt of fire. He dreamt of a roaring fire blazing everything in it's path, and finally Oliver was gone. 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The nameless, faceless bodies were back around him, surrounding him, capturing him in their endless void. He felt them move against him, a chest pressed against his back, an arm on his shoulder. 

No one was touching him, no one was even close. 

He felt them everywhere, their hands gripping his pale skin, clawing at his thin clothes. 

The neon lights weren't on yet, it was too early in the night. Elio felt their harsh glare, felt the suffocating heat, felt the light that was too bright, burned too hot, shining down on his scalp. 

It was 5:30 on a Wednesday and the club was mostly empty. Elio couldn't breathe. 

He searched for Marzia desperately, beating his way through the crowd, arms flailing wildly, already swaying from the alcohol. He found Marzia just as she was leaving the women's bathroom, still adjusting a strand of long brown hair back into place, and Elio grabbed her arm, felt her thin wrist in his hands, and she was real, she was Marzia. 

"Let me-" he began, breathing heavily, his words slurred, tongue uncomfortably dry in his mouth. 

"Elio?" Marzia asked, attempting to rip her arm away from him. He held her still, his fingers around her thin wrist like talons. 

"I need you," Elio said, reaching to tuck a hair behind her ear, caressing her cheek.

 Elio remembered when Oliver had first touched his cheek. It was almost immediately after the first time they had made love. His fingertips lighting up all of Elio's insides, melting him, Elio's soul in the palm of Oliver's hand. 

Elio stroked Marzia's face, and suddenly Marzia was ducking away from him, her head jerking back wildly. 

"No, Elio." 

Elio squeezed his eyes shut, her words wrenching his insides, his cheeks flaring red. 

"Marzia, _please_ ," he said desperately. He reached out to caress her hips, the soft curves beneath her cotton dress lighting a fire in his belly, and he was feeling something, and he was real again. 

"Marzia, I need you, _Marzia-_ " 

Marzia's large brown eyes went wide, her cheeks growing pink, and it was only then that Elio realized his hand had moved down to Marzia's ass, not quite squeezing her, but certainly not gentle in his grasp. 

" _Marzia-_ " 

"-Get away from me." 

"Marzia, I'm sorry, I'm-" 

There was a sting across his cheek, his neck whipping to the side with the force of it. 

She had slapped him, he realized hazily, and the cruelty of it almost had him breaking down into a fit of hysterics. It was too much. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to scream. 

He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, he wanted to collapse. And then he saw Marzia running away from him back to the dancefloor, her white cotton dress flouncing behind her, her long legs carrying her farther and farther into the crowd until he could no longer see her. 

Elio walked over to the bar and took someone else's drink. It was whiskey, he could tell by the smell and the burn as it went down his throat. He hated whiskey. 

Elio licked his lips. 

The taste of the whiskey still sour in his mouth, he needed to find David. He needed to find him and hold him and fuck him and feel his warm hands around his waist. He needed it. 

Elio searched the dancefloor, the crowds of people and neon lights, neon lights and crowds of people, and David didn't stand out tonight. David looked like all the others, clothes too tight, lust filled eyes, and he could read their minds, all of them. The cloudy look of hope on their faces as they gazed into unknown eyes of strangers, _will you be the one who loves me? Will you be the one to make me whole?_

Elio felt sick to his stomach. He hated everyone here, he hated them. He hated the looks of desire, the carefree smiles, the laughter. He hated the bodies pressed together so tightly they were almost one. He hated the men with one hand around their waists, someone else's lips pressed against theirs, someone they loved. Someone they would maybe someday love. Someone who meant something, or someone who meant nothing at all. Someone who took the pain away, if only for a moment. 

Elio hated them. None of these strangers here tonight could ever take his pain away, none of these strangers could ever be Oliver, and he hated them. 

Elio felt himself swaying as he walked up to David- David, who's eyes were trained on a thin blonde man dancing in the corner. David, who would never see him as anything more than a lost puppy. 

"Elio," David said gently, his mouth curving into a frown as he placed his drink on the table. "Are you alright?" 

Elio glared at him, unable to control the fire beneath his eyes. "No," he spat. 

"What is it?" 

"Let me dance with you," he said, a statement more than a question. He pressed his hips against David aggressively, a wild smile gracing his lips. 

"No, Elio." 

"Let me dance with you. One dance," Elio whispered, inches from David' face, whiskey on his breath. 

"Elio, no, this isn't good for you," David said, backing away. Elio only stepped closer towards him, vision growing hazy.  

"You don't know what's good for me. I'm not a kid, remember?" 

David sighed. When Elio reached out for him, he grabbed his arms, pinning them to Elio's side. Elio grunted in protest, his entire body shaking with energy and need. 

David looked at him then, and Elio imagined that David could watch him unravelling before him like a spool of yarn. David's hazel eyes were more green in this lighting, and Elio wanted more than anything to be seen by those eyes as more than a child. He wanted David to see him as a man, as strong, as someone he could love. It was everything that Elio wasn't. 

David stroked his arm gently, and Elio met his eyes. He was shocked to find the other man's eyes were wet, unshed tears just behind his eyelids. 

"Do you remember what you told me the other night? When I- found you in the bathroom?" 

Elio cringed at the memory, and David looked sorry. 

Elio didn't dare open his eyes. He shook his head. 

He felt David pause, could practically hear the gears grinding and whirring in David's mind, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it. 

"-You told me you didn't want to- do anything with that man," David said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.  "To have sex with him." 

A pause. 

"You told me that you only did it to hurt yourself." 

Elio squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he could picture the vein in his forehead popping out, his eyelids tearing and ripping away. 

"I don't remember that." It was all Elio could manage to say, the words barely escaping his lips. 

"It's what you told me," David said gently. When Elio finally found the courage to look into his eyes, David's cheeks were stained with tears. Elio felt his chest sink heavily, his throat aching as he fought back the flood behind his eyes. 

"-Do you remember what you told me the first time we met, when you were having that nosebleed?" David asked, and Elio blinked furiously, his cheeks growing hot, the lights suddenly too bright. Slowly, Elio nodded, gulping down a quick breath of stuffy nightclub air to keep from choking. 

David gave him a sad smile through his tears, and Elio felt his heart break for him. "You told me that you used to love someone like me," he said, his hazel eyes too intense. Elio tried to break away from his gaze, but he couldn't. "-I used to love someone like you, too." 

Elio looked down at himself then, his narrow shoulders, nonexistent hips, nearly translucent skin. The thought that someone as beautiful as David could ever come close to loving someone like him was almost laughable. 

"-I don't believe you." 

David bit his lip, a far off look taking over his features. Elio knew his mind was drifting, searching for something desperately. He knew that look. "He was kind," David said, his voice wavering. "...and smart, and loving, and beautiful. But he did things that weren't good for him- he did things that he knew would hurt him, just to hurt himself. Someone in his past hurt him, and after a while it became a part of him. It was something he searched for, and he never stopped needing it, that pain." 

Elio blinked furiously at the tears now streaming shamelessly down his face, falling softly onto his jacket, creating dark salty stains on his collar. He looked into David's eyes, searching for any sign that this was all just a story used to scare him, praying it was just that, but the look in David's eyes told him all he needed to know. His pain was real, too real- Elio could feel the ache of the loss in his own chest. 

"-I don't want to hurt myself," Elio whispered. 

David looked deep into his eyes, and Elio could feel his heart shatter in his chest. 

And then it was David holding Elio close to him, staining his t-shirt, gripping onto him like a child, crying and gasping for air. Elio ran his fingers through David's soft blonde hair, gently rocking him in his arms. 

Finally, he gets his dance. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Elio was 9 years old when he first pressed a cigarette to his skin. 

It was autumn, he remembered- he could still see the oranges and reds of the fallen leaves scattered around him, vivid as a painting. He was in his treehouse- the one his father had built for him with his own hands the summer before, sawing and hammering away at strong oak, sawdust sprinkling through the air. Elio had always thought it strange that people liked to build houses in the trees, all the way up in the clouds- who were they hiding from all the way up there? 

Elio never understood until one summer night, his mother gasping as she saw the circular pink bump raised on his skin, demanding to know who hurt him. Suddenly Elio was ashamed- from the look on his mother's face he knew he had done wrong. 

People weren't supposed to hurt themselves. People weren't supposed to want pain, to need it. 

Elio insisted it was an accident. His hand slipped. He had found it on the ground and thought it was unlit, not catching the way it sparked. He had learned his lesson. 

It wouldn't happen again. 

 

 

It didn't happen again. 

Not for several years, and even then, it wasn't the same. 

The first time Elio had pressed a lit cigarette to his skin, he had been curious. He looked at the crackling glow of the butt of the cigarette with all the wonder of a young boy who liked to stare up at the snowflakes falling on winter nights, pondering how each one was different, and how maybe that had meaning.

He felt like a caveman discovering fire. 

The second time Elio burned himself with a cigarette, his aunt Helena had passed away. He was 13, and every time she visited their home, searching for a hug, Elio ducked away from her meaty arms, evading her grasp. When he was 11 and she gifted him with a new watch, one with a leather strap that felt heavy against his wrist, he had thrown it down on the table the second he received it, sneering. He hadn't paid attention at the time, but he could picture the way her face must have fallen, the wrinkled corners of her mouth deepening, eyes cast downward, resigned. 

Elio cried and cried until his mind was hazy. He felt heavy and intoxicated, and he contemplated the way feeling and emotions could act as a drug to those who rarely experienced them so strongly. 

His eyes leaked a steady stream of tears for the rest of the day, his cheeks reddening with shame at every memory he had of aunt Helena: every kiss he evaded, every snide joke he made about her jowly face, her thick tree trunk legs, every time he pointed and laughed along with his cousins. He cried as he sat in the treehouse his father had built, dreaming about the hellfire that would certainly be awaiting him at the end of his life, because surely people like him and people like aunt Helena couldn't end up in the same place. 

Elio cried and cried, his eyes a devil's storm, pouring out his sins for all to see.  

Elio cried as he pressed the cigarette to his skin, holding it against him until he could see the skin of his forearm singed black. 

Elio screamed from the pain, and it felt good. The pain felt like a cleansing- he could see the sin falling away from him like his own skin fell away from him, nothing left but a stinging mark of warped flesh where his skin used to be. 

It felt like being reborn. 

Elio stood up, pulling his sleeve over his forearm, reveling in the residual sting of the fabric against his wound as he climbed down the treehouse ladder. 

 

Elio didn't cry anymore after that. 

 

 

The last time Elio had burned his skin wasn't the day that Oliver left. 

The day that Oliver left, he had thrown his book against the wall as he realized words on a page would never make him feel the way Oliver did, not even for a moment. Even the most beautiful of stories, the most mesmerizing collection of words, would never hold the magic of Oliver's ocean blue eyes. 

He had sat down by the fire and cried his eyes out until he felt wrung out like an old towel, nothing left to give. He had cursed God. He had cursed Oliver. 

He never hurt himself. The desire never came to him. 

He didn't press the cigarette to his skin until nearly a month later after he found himself kneeling in the alley outside the nightclub, hands tangled in his hair. He had always enjoyed the way Oliver combed through his hair while they made love, and for a moment he let himself believe it was the two of them, Oliver and Elio, touching each other and holding each other under thin bedsheets, in the candle light so Elio could see his face, glowing like something too good and too pure for him, yet somehow completely and wonderfully his. 

Elio closed his eyes, giving into the daydream, and then he felt bony hands thrust him forward, choking him, his eyes burning as the man above him moaned and then shuddered, shuddered and then stilled. 

Elio didn't recall much from that night, the haze of the alcohol blurring his memory, his senses dulled and vision blurred. 

Elio remembered standing up, wiping his mouth, and walking miles through the cold Crema midnight to reach his home. He remembered walking up to his childhood treehouse, the one he hadn't stepped foot in in years, his pulse racing at the familiar creek of the wooden ladder steps, the strong smell of oak. 

He remembered lighting the cigarette, smoking it, holding it with shaky fingers. He remembers smoking it down to the butt, rolling up his sleeves, the thin fabric catching on his upper arm. He remembers looking at his collection of sins, one for each occasion- one for sick childhood curiosity, one for aunt Helena, one for dreaming dirty thoughts about Mr. Mancini in algebra, watching the way his biceps would flex as he scribbled chalk arithmetic across the board. 

Elio peeled back his sleeve even further, the cigarette now centimeters from his skin, so close he could feel the bright heat of its end. 

One for losing himself so deeply in Oliver, so endlessly, that when he left he took every part of Elio with him. 

 

Elio pressed the butt of the cigarette against his skin, and he let it burn. 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elio let his fingers hover over the dial of his telephone, just above the numbers. 

He imagined a thousand times what Oliver would do if he told him- would he come running back, pulling him into strong arms, whispering over and over in his ear, _everything will be alright?_

Would he laugh, call him a baby, call him a coward? Would he tell him to grow up, be a man finally and stop searching for attention? 

Elio ran over all of the possible scenarios in his mind, everything from Oliver screaming in his face and hanging up the phone to Oliver racing over across the ocean on a white horse, ready to save him, or at least to try. 

And then Elio's mind rested on an image- Oliver's face, hundreds of miles away and across the sea. A pretty woman sat beside him who must love him some way, even if not the same way that Elio loved him. He pictured the look he knew he would see in Oliver's eyes- eyes cracking like fragile blue glass, ready to burst into a fountain of tears, but he would have to hold them back. He would have to set his face, man of marble, and grasp his new wife's hand. He would say, " _I'm sorry, Elio_ ," and he would mean it. And that would break him more than any rejection ever could, and they would both shatter, and no one would be there to pick up the pieces. 

And so when Elio calls, and Oliver asks how he's been doing, Elio says _good._


	8. Chapter 8

_I don't want to hurt myself._

It was his own words that ended up circling his mind that night, searching for an answer like a vulture searched for prey, desperate, jerky motions of his mind; sharp, dangerous fragments of thought.

He didn't want to hurt himself. The words repeated in his mind like a broken record, round and round and round in his head.

He didn't.

Elio closed his eyes, he wanted to sleep. He wanted to fade- he didn't want to feel, willing his body to numbness, praying for it.

The numbness never came.

Instead, he felt.

He felt the gnawing ache in his chest after he pulled out of Marzia for the third time since the summer ended, the guilt of using her, of knowing he didn't love her, that he never would. The strange hatred that he felt for her when she spoke about things like sales at the local jewelers and chemistry homework being too difficult, and even her sick grandmother Lucille, fading away in a white walled hospital out in Belluno. He hated being so close to her, having all of her body and mind, and being completely unable to feel anything for it. He should love her by now, shouldn't he? He should love her and that should be enough.

He felt the burning of the alcohol that he hated slide down his throat a hundred times, the uncomfortable fizzy feeling inside his brain, the pounding headaches as soon as the sunlight greeted him each morning, the sick feeling when he realized he had blacked out and slept through his mother's birthday, his gift for her still unwrapped in the corner of his room. That night had been a Thursday, and he had been drinking alone.

He felt the clawing shame in his stomach as he slid his body up against David's, searching for some tiny spark of what once was, the magic that he could only feel when Oliver was beside him. Waiting for David to whisper his own name into his ear, needing to hear a deep, velvet voice say his name back to him like it mattered at all, like Elio had meaning, his name, himself.

Elio could feel the hot burn of the cigarette against his skin, destroying him from the inside out. The way his flesh screamed with the stinging pain, the cruelty of it all. He existed in a world so full of suffering at every corner, and he was here, inflicting it upon himself.

The irony should have made him laugh, but it didn't. 

 

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That night he called Marzia, her voice breathless as she answered the phone, and he knew he had caught her coming in from a jog through the park across the street from her home. He knew the way she tucked her hair behind her ear before he heard the sounds of her bracelet jangling through the receiver. He knew she would forgive him, she always would. He knew she would forgive him for all of his cruelties. For needing her, but never the way that she needed him. For wanting her, but never enough to love her.

Her voice cracked as she whispered the words, and Elio knew her full pink lips were quivering against the telephone, her fingers strangling themselves in the cord.

" _Friends?"_

Elio bit his lip. The wound reopened like he knew it would. He tasted blood.

"Friends," he whispered, and he almost wished that she couldn't hear him. That his voice had turned into the wind, and she was free to hang up the phone, thinking that the line had gone silent, and that the only people she could ever hear were the ones who heard her back. 

 

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The first time he spoke of the wedding was one week before their flight to the states, suitcases already partially packed and passports stuffed into his mother's silver clutch. 

He heard their whispers from the kitchen, his name was mentioned. They spoke his name in hushed, worried tones, his mother looking into his father's eyes desperately, his father staring back, trying to convey some reassurance that never came. 

They spoke and they spoke, and Elio watched them, standing silently in the doorway, watching his mother and his father, his mother staring up at his father with sparkling brown eyes, his father staring right back into hers with a lazy smile, running fingers through her hair. 

Elio watched his father grasp his mother's hands, rubbing her palm, and he thought of Oliver and Anabelle. 

Oliver and Anabelle. Anabelle. Oliver's future wife. The future light of his life. 

The name tasted bitter as he swished it around the mouth of his mind, and he let himself imagine a face like a witch, sharp and gray and eyes like stone. 

And then he watched his mother melt into his father's side, a content sigh escaping her lips, and his father hummed, pressing her body close to his. 

And maybe that was love, too. 

Maybe that was love- what his father and his mother had. It would never be the clawing, aching, fire in your chest, thunder in your lungs _love_   that Oliver had with Elio. Oliver would never feel the burning passion, the need, would never feel all of the stars align in his universe and burst into light. 

But she would hold him. She would be with him, she would care for him. She would hold him too close, he knew, sometimes, when he needed it most. 

He stood, back against the wooden wall of the hallway as his father smiled and nuzzled his mother's cheek, and then he spotted Elio standing in the doorway, hands clasped tightly behind his back, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Elio," his father said gently. He walked over to his son and put his arms around his shoulders. From the corner of his eye he saw his mother and Mafalda watching, the looks in their eyes making him want to curl in on himself, to disappear from sight.

The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

"I want to go. To the wedding." 

His father paused, looking at him then. A silent moment passed between them, and for a moment Elio could see his father, and his father, he knew, could see him. 

"You don't have to go," his father said, looking into his eyes. "-if it's too much." 

There was so much in his father's words, in his eyes, so much meaning that was unspoken, and he fought back grateful tears, instead letting his father hold him like a child.

"I want to," he whispered, to his father, to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

One by one, he lets them go. 

Like a flock of birds that he holds in his hands, ready to fly if he lets them. 

So he lets them.  

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Elio learns of David's address from the man in the golden skirt at the club, dancing away by the corner jukebox one Friday night, glitter sprinkled down his long hair, dotting his shoulders. 

Elio is sober as he rides his bike to David's house, his head too clear in a way it hadn't been in months. Everything was uncomfortable- the wind too still, the sun too bright. 

Elio felt awake. 

Elio felt awake as he stared into David's eyes, all of his words of gratitude falling silent on his tongue. Elio considers showing David the marks on his skin, four in total, wretched circular scars, puckered and pink even with age. Elio considers writing him a note and slipping it under the door for him to read later, folded neatly with perfect handwriting, _there would have been one more if it hadn't been for you_. _You saved me._

Elio tries to convey all this and more in a look, and he knows David understands the moment strong, trembling arms reach out to grab him. 

" _Thank you_ ," he whispers, his voice gentle but strong as a sudden whipping wind surrounding them. 

"Thank you," David whispers back, and they stand there on David's wooden porch while time stands still, holding each other, and Elio thinks he understands love, now more than ever. 

 

David is not Oliver, David will never be Oliver. 

David is David, and Elio loves him. 

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When Marzia asks him to come over, he holds her. He doesn't grasp her, he doesn't fondle her, he doesn't search for himself in the smooth peaks of her breasts and the gentle curves of her hips. 

Marzia lays her head on his shoulder, and she tells him that she might be in love with Vincenzo, the boy from the club with hair dark as the midnight sky and a toothy smile too wide for his lips.

Elio lies back against the pink striped pillows of her childhood bedroom and smooths Marzia's hair with his fingers. He kisses the top of her forehead, and it is more than enough. 

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When Elio disposed of his last pack of cigarettes, it wasn't anything sensational like in the soap operas he'd watched with Mafalada on quiet Sunday afternoons. There was no stomping the cardboard into the ground, no dramatic lighting on fire, no celebration. 

Elio stared at the box for one second, two seconds, and it was in the trash, unceremoniously dropped into the kitchen bin. 

There was no celebration, no glorious, proud moment, and yet, Elio smiled. 

Even from down the hallway, Elio swore he could hear his father's old wooden clock ticking, despite the dust and wear. He could hear the steady beat of the hand of time, the clock ticking on and on and on. 

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"You never danced with me, you know. Last summer. You promised to, but you never did." 

The cake had been cut, the frosting running and syrupy with heat, the guests leaving signaled by screeching of metal chairs and promises of keeping in touch over the sounds of clasping purses, jingling keys. _Oh, what a beautiful wedding_ , they'd say to each other, the bridesmaids giggling on the walk to the parking lot, tripping over their heels. _"Who do you think will be next?"_

Oliver stands before him, every bit as golden and godlike as he remembered, his perfect chiseled jawline, strong veiny hands, clear blue eyes. The black tuxedo makes him appear even more like a wax figurine, even more doll-like, too perfect to be standing before him, looking into his eyes like he was the only person on earth. 

"Elio-" Oliver began, his hands clasped by his sides, eyebrows drawn together. Voice gentle. "Elio, I- I don't know what to say. I'm sorry." 

Elio feels something inside his heart light up painfully- those were the words he'd been waiting to hear. He'd never admitted it to himself, but he'd dreamed about this moment- Oliver apologizing to him for loving him, for teaching him what love was, for giving him love and then ripping it away. 

Elio shook his head. In the corner of his eye, he spotted her- dressed head to toe in white, her bridal veil pushed back to reveal rosy red cheeks, long hair the color of straw. He hadn't seen anyone smile like that in a long time. 

And he hadn't seen anyone smile the way Oliver did- face glowing, radiating light, all of the energy and purity of sunshine in his eyes. 

Elio shook his head again, giving Oliver a smile. "Don't be sorry. Just dance with me." 

Oliver took Elio in his arms then, swaying to the smooth jazz emanating from the dance floor, playing a gentle tune. The wedding band still playing on, softly. 

"You love her," Elio said, his head pressed against Oliver's chest. "-in some way." 

Oliver paused. "I do." 

Elio paused, giving Oliver a watery smile.

"I'm happy." 

He was. 

Oliver held him until the song was over, clutching him close to his chest, and then he let him go. He let him go, and Elio was free. 

Finally, they had their dance. 

 


End file.
